


To Gogy: an album by Dream

by Qekyo



Series: Selene; the moon [4]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Musicians, Mutual Pining, One Night Stands, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Break Up, Self-Indulgent, Singer AU, Singer!Dream, Singer!Geroge, Social Media, Tags May Change, Triggers, Twitter Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qekyo/pseuds/Qekyo
Summary: Dream is a solo singer with an overly hyped up album that he lacks inspiration to finish, after his former band, Dreamteam, fell apart when he broke up with his now equally famous ex and former bandmate, Geroge.Maybe Dream should stop repressing his feelings while stop being jealous over online flirting on Twitter, and find inspiration to finish the biggest album of the year.Maybe Dream should actually tell George what he feels instead of constantly avoiding him. But then again, what if he doesn't feel the same anymore?Maybe he does.A certain party happens.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Darryl Noveschosch, Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Selene; the moon [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979491
Comments: 95
Kudos: 550
Collections: Fics I'm reading with no ending





	1. 1: now playing: Crying in my prom dress by Mxmtoon

**Author's Note:**

> Okay the whole shebang lets go:
> 
> I made this purely for the fandom and my self indulgence. If dream and George ever say that they are uncomfortable with the shipping, this will be taken down immediately. Please do not send, link, or tag cc or dream and George to read this or i will literally die.
> 
> I honestly don't know how to write a summary so pls pay attention to the notes to clear any sort of confusion. Tags will be updated 
> 
> Also, thanks to my absolutely incredible editor ; Jc and Merrie !! <333

Dream is a singer.

Let's just get that clear.

A quite popular one if he may add,

It isn't particularly the lavish life that he partially expected when he stepped into the demanding industry. More or less. It is, in fact, filled to the absolute brim with fancy gala events and somewhat pushy interviews. With just the smallest dash of self deprivation.

But at the same time, it's _exhilarating._

It's the feeling of hitting that high C on nothing but pure adrenaline as the crowd around him jumps on the time of the beat. The vibrations in the air as the speakers blare his songs in an open stadium, the sound of bass undertoning the sharp electric guitar he would hold in his hands. 

Dream is a singer, yes. But he is first and foremost an _entertainer._

Sometimes the late night shows and overenthusiastic hosts may push his buttons at times. Or the stuffy events that his agency makes him attend for the sake of 'connection building' is just a facadè hidden behind lip tight smiles and false promises. The industry is dangerous.

It's dangerous in the way that stalkers and death threats are. It's dangerous in the way that's detrimental to mental health and internal ambitions. Dream is aware of this, he knows that the fame will only bring him a downward amount of anything. Dream is aware of the consequences of being a world wide known musician. He knows that it can start and ultimately break relationships.

Clay is also aware of that.

And Dream and Clay-- are _very_ different people.

  
  
  
  
  


"Nice work on the show with Jimmy Kimmel yesterday." His manager and long time friend, Bad says happily.

Dream groans when he sees him in the hallway of his penthouse apartment. His eyes want to immediately glare at the sight of it. He forces himself not to though, maybe it's the fact that glaring at your agent is not a good move when they literally control your career, or maybe it's the fact that Bad is too much of a good person who doesn't deserve to deal with dream's constant bullshit.

"Why did I even do that? The man literally has 3 previous interviews with me already." He spits out. Oh poor him with his celebrity woes of being on a famous international talk show, how pretentious he sounds to anyone who doesn't know him.

Bad scoffs good naturedly. He takes up a seat by the breakfast bar. "New Album, new interview. That's just how it works." He waves his hand dismissively in the air. Dream's scowl soon fades as he offers Bad a cup of coffee. He turns to his coffee compress by the end of the breakfast bar and starts loading it up with grinded powder. They don't want to repeat the alcohol accident back at the Grammys.

Bad watches eagerly as the water boils inside the compress, a tranquil smile crossing his soft and gentle features. He hums a small tune, whilst kicking his legs under the stool. He'd be mistaken for a teenager with an attitude of a toddler if it wasn't for the fact that everybody around them knew he's at least 5 years older than Dream.

"Anyhow, how's the track coming along? We'd be giving Jimmy Kimmel a field day when it's done. You know we have to meet your fan's demands." Bad asks. His eyes don't even meet Dream's, stead they linger on the abandoned keyboard and littered papers in his living room with a solemn look. 

Ah yes, his very _demanding_ fans indeed. Jimmy Kimmel included.

The look on Bad. his face is nothing less than sympathetic. Dream almost drops his annoyed act. He can't stay mad at Bad when he's the most supportive and kindest person in his career. Dream knows that he's only asking for the sake of his career and wellbeing. And the scattered papers in his living and the dark purplish bags under his eyes are a clear indication that his well being is _sleep deprived_.

"If it means another sitting on his absurdly uncomfortable couch then I rather not release it at all." He scoffs halfheartedly, hoping to change the topic. 

  
  


This time, Bad spares him a quick glance. "I'll file a complaint to the show about their taste in furniture if you're so angered by it. But I also need something to give the producer some semblance of an album or they'll think my agent is incompetent." 

Dream laughs at that. "I can already see the headlines, Bad." He gasps overdramatically and leans on the counter with a hand pressed against his forehead. "Famous singer, Dream, gets sold off by a record deal for being _lazy._ "

Bad grimaces. "As if I'm not used to getting rid of terrible headlines of you by now anyways." He laughs.

Then, his soft features stiffen, his look morphs into a stern parent whose about to reprimand their child. Well atleast that's what Dream feels at the moment as he's being stared down by Bad. 

"I didn't mean to sugar coat it, Clay. You do need to finish this track for the album. The record has been hyping it up so much by now, you can't disappoint." He says gravely. 

Dream, after hearing that, drops his joking act. The mood had now grown sullen, with the sudden presence of an deadline looming over them darkly. A pregnant pause fills the silence heavily. With Bad, still focused on the coffee press and Dream, eyes erratically scanning the crumpled pieces of paper by the living room. The weight of last night's brainstorming finally took its toll on him by the sudden weight that is being pushed down on his eyelids. 

The sudden ding of the water heater is the only thing that brings him back from the sweet temptation of sleep. He more or less, sways over to the end of the counter and pours two glasses of steaming black liquid into two mugs. He also takes a little packet of creamer and sugar with him because God forsake him if he forgot that Bad hates anything bitter. His attitude on work related events being one of them.

He hands the steaming cup to Bad who takes it happily. He says a rushed 'thanks' before blowing away the curling tendrils of heat that arise from the liquid. He takes a sip and practically moans in pleasure. 

"You know what, maybe the coffee compressor wasn't such a bad spontaneous buy after all." He announces in between sips of coffee. Dream rolls his eyes.

"I told you so!" He proclaims with a proud tone. Bad chuckles softly.

Dream pulls his chair back and starts to make his way around the counter. "Thanks for the visit Bad. I gotta work now." He says, not even bothering to look behind him as he says goodbye.

Dream takes a sip of his coffee as he walks to his living room, the taste embeds itself on his tongue,black and bitter. The searing heat immediately grounds him back to reality. He takes a few more tentative gulps, before trekking over the threshold of his apartment to the living room. Attempting not to step on any of the discarded papers on the ground unless one of them had a half decent idea he could use. Desperate times call for desperate measures he thinks.

He collapses down on his sofa. He hates how invitingly warm and comfortable is. It's almost like it's alluring him to rest his head on its frames and rest. Just one long blink and he would drift off into a well deserved slumber--

  
  


No. He aggressively shakes his head, slapping his cheeks repeatedly in an attempt to battle his want to collapse onto the couch. It takes at least a minute for the coffee to get into his system and send his mind into overdrive. He _needs_ to do this. He _has_ to do this. He tells himself.

With that, he grabs a random sheet of paper and sets it beside his keyboard. The keys sink beneath the weight of his fingers. Slender, nimble and trained hands start to conjure melodies. Symphonies that drift and wraft the room in their euphoric sounds. Notes and chord progressions start and end in measures as it slowly and slowly builds frustration.

To anyone, what they're hearing is just piano.

And Dream doesn't want that.

It's-- lacking.

He tries again, abruptly ending the progression he was just playing in a sour clang of keys. He then plays another tune, then another, then another-- a loop begins the form. Lovely melodies instantly cut short by his innate will to create something more. The notes seem so dull and lifeless, just a string of chords pulled together to form a mismatched array of sounds. They don't sound pleasing, well, atleast not to Dream. Someone who constantly seeks more.

The musical tones immediately turn sour. Uncoordinated and wild, almost like a banshee's scream for help. 

He doesn't want his music to be just another work of piano and pop.

He wants more.

_"We can't do this anymore, Clay. I'll still love you, i-its just--"_

Woah.

Why did _that_ come up?

"Maybe you should take a break, Clay." Bad says gently. Breaking Dream out of his moment of shock.

His hand rests itself on Dream's shoulder in silent reassurance. Dream doesn't even notice it, he thought Bad left the moment earlier after drinking the coffee he gave.

When did he get so distant with his surroundings?

"I have to finish this--" 

"You can finish it another day. I can see how tired you are." Bad's hand squeezes his shoulder firmly, as if trying to ground him back to reality. Dream wasn't even aware that his fingers were shaking so intensely before he reached for one of the discarded papers on his keyboard, before dropping it half way.

Bad looks at the discarded paper with a sad expression.

"Maybe you should sleep?" He asks tentatively.

Dream shakes his head vigorously, ashen blonde hair falling over his eyes. "No. I--I don't feel like it." 

When he says he doesn't feel it, he actually means that the anticipated tweets and comments by his fans are permanently engraved into the back of his eyelids. Constantly making him think that the time he uses sleeping, could instead be used to satisfy his fan's requests. Even if he did manage to get a wink of sleep, the guilt and workload would drown him and push him towards the thin line that is his sanity.

And Bad-- Dream wonders what he did to deserve such a caring friend, and even better manager. Bad can see the well hidden intentions Dream holds so guarded. He is also kind enough not to mention it, stead prompting to smile kindly and pick up the discarded paper on the floor and set it neatly on top of his keyboard.

"How about I make you breakfast?" 

Dream is a thousand times thankful for Bad.

By the time Bad is done frying some simple eggs. Dream is on the verge of flipping his keyboard over in anger. Luckily Bad calls him over to eat and the keyboard is spared another day. 

Dream lazily moves his body to the kitchen. His nose is instantly greeted by the warm aroma of butter and eggs. Along with the fruity smell of orange juice. Bad sits there, arms crossed and a proud grin on his face. Dream immediately digs into the perfectly cooked and buttered eggs and moans in ecstasy when they enter his mouth. 

They sit in a comfortable silence. Dream basically licks his plate clean and Bad's eyes downcasted, as if in deep thought. 

Even when Dream finished his plate and put it in the dishwasher, Bad still remained silent. Alarmingly so, normally he would ask if Dream still wanted seconds, or even cook him lunch for later. Now Dream was concerned by how quiet his friend was.

"Alright dude, spit it out." He announces loudly. Bad snaps his head at the sudden sound. His eyes are shockingly guilty.

"It's nothing." He says primly, biting his lip.

Dream rolls his eyes and continues to hold his statement. Arms crossed and posture straight. "It's definitely not nothing."

There's a tense quietness that lingers between them. With Bad looking terribly ashamed and Dream just awfully concerned.

Then, Bad lets it out. "Your fans are asking for a Dreamteam reunion." 

Dream's breath hitches. His body immediately tenses at the name. Mouth quivering for a response.

_"I just can't handle everything-- everyone. Watching us!--"_

**_Danm._ **

Why are all these thoughts coming back _now_?

"When are they not? It's not that bad then?" He says through gritted teeth. His hands curling up into fists, nails penetrating his skin. 

Bad's expression turns crestfallen. Eyes absolutely bleeding regret.

"Goerge mentioned on instagram live about seeing Sapnap for a reunion." 

Dream feels like the world just stopped moving.

Bad doesn't seem to notice the absolutely petrified look on Dream's face though. He continues.

"Twitter is on fire because of that. Someone made the assumption that you were also coming and that it was a whole reunion! They think that you guys will write a new album together." Bad stammers, he looks equally panicked about the situation.

Dream laughs bitterly. "That's it? It's like they forgot why we split in the first place."

Bad's horrid expression grows into one of confusion. Like he knew something Dream didn't.

"Wait-- have you not checked Twitter?" He all but yells. He abruptly stands from the counter chair and it makes a loud sound as it falls behind him.

Dream winces, he prays that it didn't crack his tiles.

"No? I was busy writing tracks." He claims it's the easiest thing in the world.

Bad quickly closes his mouth. 

"Why? What's happening?" He asks incredulously. Fear rising within him. How terrible could it be if _Bad_ didn't want to tell him?

He quickly dashed to his bedroom across the penthouse. Almost slipping on the marble tiles while doing so. Slamming the door of his bedroom, he scrambles to his bed and clamors for his phone. 

When he finds it buried under some sheets like some hidden treasure, Bad is already standing by the doorframe looking extremely worried. 

With somewhat shaky hands, he opens his phone. He's almost instantly greeted by a spam of twitter mentions and dm's asking if he was ok. One notable thing is almost the dozen missed calls from Sapnap, his old friend and bandmate.

He opens twitter and the first thing he sees is a shit ton of mentions and tags.

> **Yumaid** | _@yumaid_art_ 1hr ago
> 
> I just got on twitter and oml the tea is incredible today @Dreamwastaken
> 
> **FA1TH|** _@hunnytuber_ 20hr ago
> 
> @Dreamwastaken hasn't tweeted about it yet, he's either dead or over it
> 
> **Fei|** _@dreaminators_ 21h ago
> 
> Guys,,, stop tagging dream. Its obvious he doesn't want to see it!! _@_ Dreamwastaken, @hunnytuber

Now he's really concerned. 

He opens one of the dm's he has from Wilbur. A fellow musician and close buddy from when they were first started in the industry. His last text was over 7 hours ago. 

_Wilbur:_ hey dude just checkin in, u alright?

Whatever is happening must really be a colossal mess if _Wilbur_ is concerned, one of the chillest people he's ever met.

_Dream:_ yea im ok? Wtf is happening?

Wilbur replies almost instantly.

_Wilbur:_ wait. U haven't seen the tweets?

_Dream:_ everyone seems to be mentioning it. I passed out before i could read anything.

The text bubble beside Wilbur's icon appears and reappears again and again for what seems like hours. 

Dream is chewing his nails. A habit that he thought he killed when he had stage fright back in his old band days. Now it seems to have resurfaced just now.

_Wilbur soot sent 3 images._

Dream instantly clicks on the photos.

> **George ✔|** _@gerogenotfound_ 22h ago
> 
> _@mxmtoon_ stop you're making me blush 😳

Dream almost chokes when he sees it.

> **Maia ✔|** _@mxmtoon_ 23h ago
> 
> Help im simping for someone bigger than me
> 
> **Maia✔|** _@mxmtoon_ 23h ago
> 
> GUYS STOP @TING HIM OMG
> 
> **Maia✔|** _@mxmtoon_ 23h ago
> 
> How can a man be so cute?
> 
> **George✔** | _@gerogenotfound_ 23h ago
> 
> right back at you
> 
> **Maia✔|** _@gerogenotfound_ 23h ago
> 
> UHM HI?? PLS DONT MIND THE OTHER TWEETS

There's a long silence for a while. With Dream just staring blankly on the phone, with the tweets displayed on top. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Bad approaching him slowly.

"I didn't want you to see it, especially in this state." Bad winces at his choice of words. Dream doesn't even look at him however, his eyes just glass over as he stares at George's latest tweet.

"The reason nobody's mentioning you in the reunion…" he says slowly, like he was treading over a bomb that was about to explode in any given second. "Is because they're all too busy with the fact Geroge is flirting with another celebrity."

Dream doesn't respond.

He can't think right now.

He doesn't even notice he's crying until his tears hit the screen.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. 2: now playing: eye of the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> theres a party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skskskkssakdnijdhob i had 3 emotional breakdowns while writing this so i hope yall enjoy :,))))
> 
> Some tw for this chapter:  
> \- Alcohol  
> \- depictions of a mild panic attack

"What the _fuck_." 

There's something funny in Dream's misery. Or atleast-- that's whatever some sick god thinks when they destroy his emotions. He must be fun to be toyed with, because they seem to constantly make his life worse. Dream may not believe in that god, but he sure wishes they could stop being such a bag of dicks to him.

"Clay, dude. You need to calm down." Sapnap's chiding, electronically toned voice crackled through the phone he was holding. 

"Clay, breathe. You're doing it again." His tone is concerned, almost alarmingly panicked. "Hey, come one. Focus on my voice." 

Sapnap's comforting tone is the only thing that can make it through the haze of white noise that clogs his ears like water. He feels like he's drowning, with the ever increasing weight of the bottomless ocean on his chest. As tears pour out from his eyes in metaphorical waterfalls. 

  
  
  


_"It's not you! I-it's them! It's always been them! Why do you always blame yourself--"_

  
  
  
  


Make it stop. The voice inside his head roars. He doesn't want to remember. 

"Deep breath in, long breath out." Sapnap says, breaking the long forgotten memory. "Just keep listening to me."

And he tries. It feels like hours until he can form a half decent sentence. Even then, his throat feels sore from how much he's been clawing it. Words seem to be stuck in the back of his tongue. Sapnap stays with him patiently through the phone. Whispering words of encouragement and support as Dream slowly picks himself up. 

"N-nick?" He asks, it's broken and hoarse. He instantly cringes at how bad it sounds, even for a singer his caliber. 

Sapnap responds almost instantly. "Yeah? What do you need dude?" 

The guilt is almost unbearable to Dream. The fact that he cried his heart out to his former band mate on call is embarrassing enough. But the kindness and sympathy that leaks from his words makes Dream feel unworthy. Ever since the start, when Sapnap told Dream he wanted to start a band, ever since their rise to the top of the charts and their eventual downfall, he still, undoubtedly treats Dream like a real person in such a fake industry.

He's _unbearably_ guilty.

"I-- I'm sorry, Nick." He uses his real name, not his stage name, in an uncertain way of being serious.

Sapnap chuckles at that. "No need to be sorry. I was really worried when you weren't responding to my calls at first." 

Dream manages a weak, reassuring laugh. He slowly gets up from his cross legged position on his bedroom floor. He doesn't even remember how his knees buckled under the pressure at first, how his tears clouded his vision. He doesn't even remember how his fingers shakily dialed Sapnap's number in the haze of hysteria and disbelief.

"No, but seriously," he says gently, almost as if to cushion the hard news he was about to drop. "You seem to have reacted pretty-- _violently_ to all of that." 

'All of that' is his old friend's polite term of labeling his messy breakdown. Dream's body flinches at the way he puts it, almost like he's ashamed of it.

"No need to hide it Nick." His tone is cold and hard, said through gritted teeth. "It's all out now. Just say what you want to say." He hisses.

Sapnap is quiet for a beat, collecting the words he plans to say. Finding a way to phrase it in a way that Dream can take.

And when he does,

"You really aren't over George, are you?"

It hurts Dream to know that he phrased it like a question. That he needed to give Sapnap an answer that he himself has not found. It's as if he hasn't asked himself the same thing over and over again on multiple sleepless nights on end. His brain can't supply him or his friend an answer. 

"I-- I don't know…" he says hesitantly. It comes out soft and barely incomprehensible, he doubts that Sapnap even hears it.

And to his surprise, he does. "I wouldn't judge you if you don't know yourself." He says in a playfully light tone. "You're not one to really think things through. Or think at all really."

That causes a genuine laugh out of Dream. "Shut up." 

A string of laughter bubbles between the phone lines. It feels almost nostalgic to Dream. To be laughing with a friend he thought he lost years ago because of circumstances. It feels like a small part of him has been found again.

"But really, you shouldn't be hung up over all of this." 

Sapnap's right, he _really_ shouldn't be hung up on someone he lost a long time ago. It's just pathetic really. He's pathetic.

But he gives in.

"Hey, sap. Can I ask you something?" He asks tentatively, nervously fiddling with the hem of the shirt he's wearing as he painstakingly waits for Sapnap's reply.

Sapnap hums as a response. "Shoot."

Dream sucks in a breath, "Who's the girl he's talking to?" 

Sapnap doesn't reply for a moment, and it makes Dream almost shit himself. He always knew that Sapnap was closer to Geroge than he was. He was most likely overstepping his boundaries by asking such an insensitive question. And besides that, it basically _confirmed_ Sapnap's original question. Now that he thought about it more, was he ever even over--

"Her name's Maia, or mxmtoon online. An up and coming indie artist who's single 'prom dress' blew up a few months back." He states with a neutrally monotonous voice. Dream's eyes widen.

Something wretched and ugly stirs in the bottom of his stomach. It's an unfamiliar feeling, yet, it feels absolutely terrible. It floods Dream's thoughts like a storm, an up and coming indie artist? Has George's standards dropped after everything? How special could she be if _George_ took interest in her? 

It's as if the thought of Geroge smiling next to a beautiful girl is like lead poison to him. Eroding and deadly. 

A wave of bitterness washed over him. George and her were flirting, online. For the prying eyes of the media to see and dissect. It's as if he didn't even care one bit for who saw, like he didn't care if _Dream_ saw. 

_"Why does everyone have to watch me when I just want it to be you? I don't want eyes to be on us--"_

He claps a hand over his ear in a poor attempt to block out the resurfacing memories that he thought his brain had long repressed for the sake of not hurting anymore. 

Apparently it's different with _her._

That made the ugly feeling inside him burst and boil and fill him with such excruciating anger. The reason why it all ended in the first place, with the cameras constantly staring him down and following them. The overbearing thought of knowing that every single detail of their private life would be shown. It's not ok with Dream, but it's ok with Maia?--

Oh.

"I don't know much about it, George is oddly secretive about her. They text though, a concerning amount." Sapnap adds.

It's like gasoline to a raging fire. Dream's hand unconsciously tightens into a fist, his other almost squeezes his phone so tightly that the screen threatens to break. The feeling in his stomach flares, it festers and churns like a forest fire. Eating up every word Sapnap says and growing with each one. It's utterly degrading and disgusting. 

_He's jealous._

More and more he's finding out the answer to the question he couldn't answer before.

"Hey don't worry about it dude! And by the way," Sapnap interjects his wandering train of thought. Dream almost instantly snaps out of his fit of momentary anger. It's incredibly thoughtful for the bassist to notice Dream's bitterness and stead, prompt to change the topic. 

"Are you going to be attending the MTV's?" Sapnap coaxed 

Dream raises his eyebrow. "Yeah, Bad would have my head if I didn't." Sapanp chuckles at the mention of their former band manager's name. He quickly brushes it off however and inquires more.

"No no, like the after party?" He continues. Dream stops at his slow pace to the kitchen. He hadn't even thought of the after party.

It's not like grand events like the MTV's had bad after parties per se. As much as he doesn't like to admit it, the big important parties for important people aren't his specialty. You think after being in the music industry you'd be used to the constant watch of thousands of eyes. Well, not Dream. He still gets awkward and tense whenever another big shot celebrity approaches him with the intention of small talk. That doesn't put aside the other fact that he is an extrovert, just a terrible mediator.

"Do I have to?" He tries not to groan too loudly for Sapnap's sake. After everything going on, the last thing he would want to do is be bombarded with the media. 

"But dude!" Sapnap all but yells. "Everyone is gonna be there! Wilbur, Tubbo, Tommy-- wait no actually I hope not Tommy. Even Techno!" His friend says enthusiastically through the phone. His excitement and enthusiasm are so infectious that it causes a small smile on Dream's face.

"That's nice dude." He says dismissively. He re-enters his barren kitchen. It was about 2-3 pm in Florida for Dream. He pulled open his fridge to see the kindly made lunch that Bad prepared him earlier. 

"Hell yeah, it's nice! We haven't seen them in so long!" Dream turns to the microwave and shoves the food inside, cranking the knob to a minute. He's only half-listening to Sapnap at this point. "C'mon Clay, Ponk, and Eret too!" 

"Sapnap I don't really--"

Sapnap starts to ramble, something he does when he's invested into something. "Sylvee, Alyssa, Callahan, Fundy, Skeppy, Finn, Spifey, Punz, Shalatt--"

The more names he lists off the more Dream gets concerned by how much Sapnap wants him to attend. It feels as if the burning passion in his friend's voice is almost drowning out the conflict in him. 

"Sapnap, chill--"

"Heck! Even George will be there!" 

For a moment, the only sound is the microwave's electronic buzzing as it heats Dream's lunch. 

Sapnap quickly sputters. His words come out so fast that they begin to slur. 

"No no no no no! I mean, maybe he won't be there? I know that he probably is very busy and-- hey look, Clay, I just want us all to be together again and--"

"Nick." He says flatly, his voice devoid of all emotion. 

He can practically hear Sapnap take in one of the sharpest breaths on the other end of the line. 

Geroge is going to be there.

"I'll see you at the after-party."

  
  


♡

There’s a saying that Dream has stuck to throughout his entire career religiously. It’s been used as a warning sign for bad omens that have trailed him, and as a reminder for him to remember when making decisions.

‘ _You are never safe in the eye of the storm.’_

He may be very illiterate at times, he very much doesn’t get the gist of poetry, or those weirdly cliche Pinterest quotes that his little sister sends him. But when he first heard it, it resonated something within him. 

In the literal and figurative sense, the eye of the storm is a place of momentary comfort, a haven where you know nothing will harm you. It’s that feeling of momentary serenity that causes ignorant bliss when in reality; the cyclone that surrounds you with its deadly winds and vicious hail will rip you apart. But how will you ever know what lies beyond the storm if you stay in its comfort? The vast world beyond will stay unexplored if so. You are never safe in the eye of the storm.

  
  
  


“Congratulations on winning Best Artist, New Artist, and Song of the Summer!” Bad cheers happily while ushering him into the limo. Dream is taken aback at the sudden pat on the back Bad gives him while he watches relentless hoards of paparazzi that clamor at the exit doors like a pack of feral animals.

Dream tries not to buckle under the praise his manager showers him in. “Techno won half of them though…” He mutters the name of his rival in a low hum. Technoblade, one of the stupidest stage names you could have chosen honestly, he thinks. Always finding a way to challenge him whenever they’re in any sort of event. 

Bad huffs a dramatic gasp, “Techno may have won all the music video awards, but the guest audience adored you!”

Dream sends an uncertain look to the ever-growing mob of paparazzi at the doors, with their flashing lights and stuffy microphones that they’ll eventually shove into Dream’s face. “Then maybe they should be swarming Techno then.” He points a finger to the crowd.

Bad’s expression turns crestfallen. His gaze diverts to the masses of people, and then to Dream. He looks to be picking his words quite carefully by the way his brow furrows in deep thought. 

“Don’t say a word, okay?” Bad asks with pleading eyes. Dream doesn’t even consider saying no.

He nods sullenly, preparing himself to be surrounded with the flash of artificial light and ear ringing shouts. It’ll get easier one day, but for now, he just has to suck it up and wear that celebrity worn smile that strains his cheeks every time.

As soon as they exit the doors, Dream is blinded by a bright flash of blinding light. He raises a hand to his face, to shield himself by not just the oncoming shudders of cameras, but also to hide an annoyed expression. He has to look happy, like a man who had just won two of the biggest awards of the event. Fake it till he makes it.

That’s until the questions come up.

“Dream! What was it like winning Best _and_ New artist?!”

“Dream! Are you jealous of Technoblade for stealing the best choreography award?”  
  
“Dream! Over here! When’s the album releasing!”

He’s learned over the years how to block out the questions he doesn’t want to hear. A skill of his he prides himself quite on a bit. With his selective hearing, he can tune out the sounds of Bad telling people to put down their cameras, the bodyguards around him asking the paparazzi to move and their objective shouting.

  
  


“Dream! What do you have to say about your unnamed album?!”

“Dream! Please over here! Have you seen the recent tweets with Mxmtoon?”

The crowd grows wilder and more rambunctious, but they're almost to the car, just a bit further--

“What do you think about Geroge and Mxmtoon’s relationship, Dream?!”  
  


He stops in the middle of the sea of photographers and journalists. His eyes instantly try to locate where he heard _that_ question from. Around him, the crowd goes ballistic, the continuous shuddering of the camera almost drowns out the shouts of his manager trying to call him to the car.

Who said that?

“Clay! What the hell-- you muffin! Hurry up!” Bad cries out, his hand quickly grabbing onto Dream’s wrist so he doesn't get swamped by the masses. 

Dream instantly breaks out of the lucid state when he sees the terror in Bad’s eye. He gives his head a shake, trying to clear his conscience before Bad inevitably shoves him into the passenger seat of the limousine. The paparazzi immediately surround the car, their phones and gaudy photography equipment flashing incessantly as the door closes in front of them. The moment the car door closes, and the driver rams the engine on, relief instantly sinks into him. 

He already knows that they’ll have pictures of his shocked face, he already knows that it’ll stir stories and assumptions, and if he’s lucky, end up on some top show tabloid.

“Ok Mister, what happened back there?” Bad asks, his tone isn’t one of an angry manager like he should be, instead, he just looks like an overly concerned puppy. 

Dream is for a lack of words. “I-I don’t know…” he says lamely. He half expects Bad to sigh disappointingly and push further on, but it seems that Bad is breaking all of his expectations today.

“It's alright.” Is all he says, with a strangely empathetic expression. He slowly backs down and reclines into the plush leather of the car seat, scarily calm.

There’s a wavering silence between them as the car moves along to their destination. With Dream, idly watching the cars drive by one the street, and Bad, simply on his phone. 

Until Bad breaks it.

“Every single event before this, you always turned down the after-party. Why now?”  
  


Dream’s gaze breaks with the windows, and stead makes its way to Bad who’s still innocently scrolling through his phone. 

Dream takes a moment to respond, a tick of hesitance that lingers between them. ‘ _Sapnap made me_ ’ is what he could say, but deep down inside of him, he knows Bad wouldn’t believe him one bit. Plus, he was never one to lie to his manager in the first place.

“It’s a personal thing.” He mutters. Hand going to the side of his face to support the weight of his arm resting under it. He tries not to catch a chance to make eye contact with Bad’s knowing gaze.

Bad’s too kind to push further however, he knows where his boundaries lie in the thin line of a friend and a manager. So he stays quiet, lets out a small hum, and offers his phone to Dream. An adorable video of Rat (Lucy actually, but Rat stuck as a cute nickname.) rolling around in some grass.

Bad is a good friend.

  
  
  


♡

“Dream! You actually came!” 

Sapnap, noticeably swaying side to side while holding a bottle of what seemed to be liquor, approached Dream with a bone-crushing hug. 

“Hey dude, you good?” he asked with a chuckle. Sapnap’s designer clothes were rumpled and smelled of sharp vodka, but he still kept a dopey lopsided grin on his face. 

“Dude! Even better now that you’re here!” he slurred. Now that Dream noticed it, his friend was holding a bottle of literal tequila and chugging it down like a champ. 

Seeing that Dream took notice of the alcohol in his hand, he hastily flagged down a waiter who was serving elegant flutes of champagne. 

“Sap, no. I don’t wanna get hammered.” He started coldly, but that didn’t stop the absolute betrayal and heartbreak to morph on to Sapnap’s face. In less than a second, the former bassist was sniffling and snorting back snot from his nose like some newborn infant.

“B-But I want you to have fun!” he whined, sucking back the tears. “You need to have fun!” Dream stood there awkwardly as Sapnap sobbed into his suit while holding a half-empty bottle of tequila. Honestly, he would be wheezing his ass off right now if it wasn’t for the fact he was genuinely concerned if Sapnap was actually crying or not.

“Sap, hey look--”

He was instantly cut off by the unholy wails that erupted from Sapnap’s mouth. The younger man grabbed Dream by his dress shirt and blew his tears onto it like tissue. Dream tried not to audibly groan, instead be a good friend and pat Sapnap on the back reassuringly.

“Hey look, I’ll take a few shots if you just stop crying, alright?” Dream said softly in a poor attempt at being comforting.

Sapnap’s response was to sniffle onto Dream’s dress shirt again. The older male sighed heavily, before waving back the waiter and taking a flute of champagne and downing in a single sip.

“There,” he hissed as the alcohol went down his throat, painfully delicious. “Better now?”

Sapnap’s head instantly snapped upwards to face Dream in the eye. A coy smile curled on his lips like the Cheshire cat. When Dream had realized what he’d done, Sapnap was already away, snickering and laughing with his half-empty bottle. 

Damn Sapnap. 

“Damn Dream, got played?”  
  


Dream’s neck probably snapped by how fast he turned around. Deep, masculine, voice like velvet that makes women swoon? It can’t be.

“Techno.”

Dream stood only a few feet apart from the man dressed only in a low neck, red button-up, and slacks. His signature cocky smile adorning his chiseled features. Dream hated it, every single bit of it. The man was leaning casually against the bar counter, nursing a glass of what he could only assume to be rum.

“Congratulations on the win by the way.” He chuckled into his glass, sharp canines poking through his devious knowing smile. Dream’s eyebrow twitched.

“You too, had trouble carrying all those trophies back to the car perhaps?” he coaxed back. Approaching Techno with a confident stride and stone-cold expression. The man didn’t even seem phased when Dream took up the spot next to him and ordered their strongest shot of liquor. 

“Not really, had some hot babe do it for me.” 

“Oh? I didn’t know you could get ladies without paying for their services.”

“Excuse you, I most definitely can get laid.”

“I never implied that. Pig.”

“You definitely were. Green boy.”

“Green boy? Lacking a bit of creativity there,”

“Oh shut up you fucker.”

The two men stared at each other murderously for a moment, before breaking into a fit of laughter. 

“Oh man, It’s been a while since I’ve talked to you Techno.” the younger laughed, with brash confidence, he took a swig of his drink and downed it until it was empty. Techno, also laughing, followed suit.

“How ya been, Dream?” his rival asked with a toothy grin. He waved down the bartender from the other side of the counter. Putting down an order of twelve shots.

Dream shrugged, still feeling the burning liquid slide down his throat. “Decent I guess.” he replied without much thought.

The bartender returned carrying six glasses each in both hands. He set it down evenly in front of both men without a second glance.

Dream eyed the glasses warily, his stomach urging with suspicion. He raised an eyebrow to Techno. The other man simply laughed heartily while he lined up the shot glasses evenly between the two of them.

“A truce, to see who is the real winner of the event.” he claimed proudly, gesturing his hand above the glasses invitingly. 

Dream’s eyes flickered from the glasses, to Techno. Who wore his kingly smile. In his eyes, Dream could see nothing but just the intention of having a friendly drinking match. 

“You're on.”

  
  
  
  
  


“TECHNO! YOUR MUSIC SUCKS.” Dream yelled on the top of his lungs at Techno, who now, lays half dead on the bar counter surrounded by an estimated eight to ten shot glasses. 

“Fuck you…” The older man grumbled as he lazily slammed his eleventh shot onto the counter. Dream’s coat was somewhere on the floor, so now he was just dressed down in his dress shirt and slacks. He raised his twelfth glass victoriously above Techno’s head, arching his neck back he quickly gulped down the hard liquor in one swing.

“You know what that means,” Dream proclaimed loudly, his words slurring together. “I’m the real winner.”

“Oh my, you really did a number on him.” Phil, or Philza says from behind the counter, an amused smile playing at his lips as he watches Techno grumble and groan at the loud victory sounds Dream is making,

“Alright now lad, I think you should drink some water.” The british guitarist says gently to Dream, who by now, is also doubling over from the tremendous amount of alcohol. “Geez, where’s Bad when you need him…” 

While Phil is looking around for Bad (who Dream knows by heart, is hanging out with Skeppy) Dream is resting his head on the cold bar counter with the fallen Technoblade as he watches the dwindling amount of celebrities commune and mingle on the dance floor.

He can make out the stupid yellow sweater that Wilbur wears to almost every single international event; as he monitors a small, angry blonde haired teenager who is currently yelling profanities. Who he assumes is Tommy, and beside Tommy is an equally concerned teenager who Dream is for certain Tubbo. 

Across from him in the bar is Eret, who’s sunglasses on every occasion can be spotted from a mile away. He seems to be talking to Shlatt who is currently surrounding himself with the red headed Finn and a smaller, blonde girl who he can’t identify.

He’s surrounded by all these former acquaintances yet he can't help but feel as if he knows anybody.

Better yet, if they know _him_.

_You are never safe in the eye of the storm._

His eyes turn unfocused as he mindlessly watches everyone move without him. As they laugh without him, as they dance without him. It’s as if he’s living a distant memory, staying in one place while everything around him buzzes and oozes life and energy. He’s living in the moment yet he’s-- not.

“Sapnap stop! I’m talking to Ponk!”

“But Georrrggeee-- have a drink!” 

It’s as if his tunnel vision can only see one thing, and it’s beautiful.

Maybe Dream’s just biased, maybe it's his clear favoritism for that hair, or those eyes, or those cheeks which hold dimples every single they smile. Maybe it’s his voice that catches Dream’s attention, how it sounds like yesterday. The way it laughs and giggles and hiccups.

Maybe it’s just him.

Sapnap wasn’t lying when he said that he would show up, he really shouldn’t doubt the younger male next time.

It’s like a cheesy movie in real life. Dream, the lovelorn main protagonist sees a beautiful man from across the room and next thing he knows he’s struck by such a force that it off balances his entire being. But unlike the movies, they don't show the tears, or the heartbreak, or the sleepless nights wondering if they’ll ever pick up the phone and call you again. And Dream isn't the main protagonist in his story, because no one ever casts damaged goods for stars. And the beautiful man across the room is too busy being happy with his friends to ever notice him silently dying from alcohol poisoning.

But then again,

He’s _here._

_George is here._

And isn’t that all that matters?

He’s just a couple steps away, just a sentence away, just _there._ In arms reach, looking jovially unaware of Dream by the bar. Jovially unaware of all the sleepless nights he’s caused, perfectly unaware of all the power he has over Dream that it’s almost terrifying.

He looks the same as he did two years ago. The same off sided hair, the same glistening eyes, the same full face smile. And Dream is exactly like he is two years ago too; hopelessly in love.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, yeah, he hopes it’s the alcohol. He gets up from Techno’s side, on surprisingly steady feet. He begins the stride towards Ponk, Sapanp and _George_ with nothing but liquid courage and the longing feeling in his heart, with the answer to the question he was looking for.

  
  
  


You are never safe in the eye of the storm, yet you are neither free. Beyond the dangerous winds and deadly hail is a world yet to be explored. A world beyond the comfort of all you know. A world that may be greater than the risk.

And Dream,

Walks into the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -why the hell am i still writing this its so bad :,)))  
> -thank you guys so much for the support and thoughtful words, i honestly don't see how this is any good. Like, writing is hard y'all  
> \- i have a hc that dream probably has anxiety and doesn't know how to deal with stressful situations, instead he tries to just suppress them until he forgets, until something triggers it  
> -for those who don't get it, I'll elaborate on the cost of slight spoilers. Idk tho  
> \- : so basically dream and Geroge were dating, but since the media constantly trailed them and watched them, it made George uncomfortable and unsafe in his relationship w dream. Bc of that, it also made Dreamteam, the band, split up. However, dreams may or may not still have feelings? 🤔  
> -im so fucking inconsistent.  
> \- I also got a new laptop, so I had to break in the keyboard and LEMME TELL YOU STIFF KEYS ARE THE WORST  
> \- pls comment and kudos loves, give suggestions too!! bc honestly my brain is d r y. so tell me some cool hc or scenarios and I'll credit you!!


	3. 3: now playing: vintage by Allie X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is tired and lonely, and maybe a little bit drunk
> 
> Dream just happens to be there

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this is getting pre released a day earlier than my usual updating days bc unfortunately my entire Thursday will be occupied. so have a mid day release my fellow readers.
> 
> i only had 4 emotional break downs while doing this one-- and its 6k words!! 
> 
> ok listen, I do not know how to write george, and neither do I want to tag this as slightly occ. so please it there are any inconsistencies . i kept losing disinterest over and over again during this chapter so there are some parts where I just get blasted with inspo, and others where I basically hit this fic with the sledge hammer of 'fuck this' repeatedly. So, uhh this isn't rlly my best, I swear Im better at writing then what ur seeing at the moment.
> 
> anyways enjoy (ps thanks to my editor myrel who said i needed to change the dialogue bc it sounded like she was reading the fucking bee movie script.)

George is a singer.

A decently well-known one,

He thinks at least-- he really doesn’t care about standing.

When he first started in the industry, he already knew about the risk, high reward sentimentality. He knows how fame can destroy a person with just a lick of it. He knows that creators alike, tear themselves apart just to live up to the high standards everyone around them sets. He was aware of all of that when he first stepped into the lion's den, and he still does. 

But at the same time, the reward is worth it. Supposedly.

It’s worth the touching letters he gets from sincere fans. It’s worth the thrill of bouncing on a stage on nothing but the music he creates surrounding him, with the same hard-earned fans he earned along the way, singing with every note he creates. It’s worth every bit.

But sometimes, he wishes he never started at all.

He wishes that when he receives stalkerish letters that cause him paranoia and unease. He wishes that when obsessive fans cause online feuds and disagreements all in his name, just for the sake of getting into a fight. He wishes that the media never constantly trailed eyes on him, that they didn’t write about him in every single article ever. He wishes that the media never stepped into his life.

George is a singer,

But at the cost of that made Clay leave his life?

He wishes he never was.

  
  
  
  
  


There’s an award ceremony George is forced to enter.

His agent calls him about it, says he’s been nominated for three awards. There’s a mask of overplayed enthusiasm undertoning it, his agent has the tone of someone saying some god awful broadway script with all the expression of a dead man. In exchange, George is equally unenthusiastic when he gives his thanks for all the hard work and ethics.

His agent gives him an incredibly forced laugh, one that reminds George of fish choking. 

“Anyways. I saw the stunt you pulled on twitter the other day.” His agent drops casually. 

George automatically tenses by instinct. His lips pressed into a thin line, his hand curled tightly around the hem of his shirt. “What about it.”

His agent gives a tired laugh, “Your fans are clearly missing the signs of a joke.” Geroge's fear may have misinterpreted his tone for one of disappointment, making him tense more.

He tries not to let out the bottling anxiety and apprehension seep out of his voice when he replies lamely. “They didn’t know?”  
  


“George, you know what this will do to her. It will bring her tremendous amounts of attention, but with that attention will cause slander. I’m sure you're very much aware of that.”

He can feel all the anxiety in his turn into bottomless dread. Guilt instantaneously fills him to the brim, his eyes close under the stress. His hands begin to shake uncontrollably as his breath hitches and heaves. His body trembles at the thought of it.

Maia, the cute girl from the album he was listening to last week while reminiscing about before. Maia, who had such infectious passion that inspires George to start the same work ethic as her. Maia, who is nothing more than a friend who happened to flirt with him in front of his million-plus fanbase, right on one of the most popular apps there is.

Maia who is now, most likely, paying the price for it.

“Did her agent contact you?” His voice wavers.

His agent sighs. “No.” he states formally like he can’t hear George’s panicked and stuttering breaths through the phone. It's almost kind. “Would you like me too?”

“No.” he replies pensively. He wants to text Maia himself, he wants to apologize to the indie singer as sincerely as he can for dragging her into the hell that is his fanbase. He wants to warn her for all the future threats and comments they will make in his name against her.

“Alright, besides all of that, will you be attending the event after-party?” his agent inquiries, blissfully avoiding the previous subject.

George doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I will.” The thought of all his friends being in one place, drinking, and having fun gives George no room for second thoughts.

“All right. I’ll update you on anything when I can.” And with that, his agent ends the call.

He practically sinks into a pile of stress when the line goes quiet. He treks over to his house’s living room and takes a seat in the recliner by the corner of the room. His big, fancy-to-some-extent house with only one person accommodating its barren insides. 

He opens his phone, and goes to twitter, already bracing himself for the barrage of tweets and mentions on his feed.

  
  


> **Anne I** _@ritsu_ 16hr ago
> 
> @Mxmtoon rlly is about to get BLASTED by all the Notfound simps rn
> 
> **Mr. Lovely Wap I** _@Never_Fallix_ 16hr ago
> 
> @Mxmtoon got sum balls to flirt with him in public, honestly mad respect
> 
> **Milkcrepe I** _@milkcrepe_ 15hr ago
> 
> Yall are so possessive smh, George isn’t yours, calm down and don’t harass over ppl like that
> 
> **George’s #1 Fan I** _@rayanotfound_ relying to _@milkcrepe_ 16hr ago
> 
> He’s an idol!! @Mxmtoon should've seen it coming the moment she tweeted it !! She’s just doing it for the clout!
> 
> **Milkcrepe I** _@milkcrepe_ replying to _@rayanotfound_ 15hr ago
> 
> Seen it coming?? Girl-- lemme spell it out for you ‘celebrities are people too’ 😤 Yall are so controlling over George, he can't date/flirt with whoever he wants without having his fans breathe down his neck like omg chill your 13 year old ass down
> 
> **Flufffaith I** _@wapnapnocap_ replying to _@milkcrepe_ 14hr ago
> 
> Omfg finally someone that understands. Yall really need to stop telling george who he cant and cannot date. If he likes maia then you guys should support him if u were actually his fans. If not, this is gonna end up like the entire dream situation again. Do u guys remember how sad he was? Do u want that to happen again?
> 
> **Chi I** _@itachiiichi_ 14hr ago
> 
> Oh lawd, dream. What do u guys think how he’s reacting to all of this--
> 
> **Cumin Squad I** _@ohlwadhecomin_ 13hr ago
> 
> JESUS THIS THREAD NEEDS TO CALM DOWN WITH DREAM. YALL THAT WAS 2 YEARS AGO THEY’RE OVER LOL
> 
>   
>    
> 

George instantly closes his feed with such force, he swears he permanently damaged his screen. No, he doesn't want to see the mentions and threads that all mention the someone who he lost years ago. The someone who still worms his way into his heart on late nights and cold evenings. His late someone, famous world-renowned singer, ex-boyfriend Dream.

Not the stage name that he gave him as a joke. Not Dream, but rather Clay.

Dream is just the name, not the person.

it's been so long since he's actually tried to remember what he looks like. He can make out the vaguest glimpse of- tawny eyes, and wavy blonde hair. His laugh, high pitched and jubilant still rings in his ears sometimes when it's quiet. It's those long pauses in his memory, where he painstakingly forced himself to forget, haunts him with their long in-betweens and haziness. 

He does _not_ want to remember.

Remembering only causes more pain, and George hates the pain.

So he forcefully makes himself forget.

He opens Maia’s contact. He types a few words before promptly deleting them and writing new ones. He does this for at least twenty minutes, his lip was an angry red from how much he had been gnawing on it in frustration. After another ten or so minutes before finally hitting the small arrow emoticon.

> _George:_ hey, im sorry for all the trouble my fans are giving you. They're not like, telling you anything are they?

The small green dot beside Maia’s profile lights up, she’s online. And replies almost urgently.

> _Maia:_ hey!!! Don’t worry too much about it, they're perfectly tame :))

> _George:_ Oh thank god, i saw some tweets and i got worried
> 
> _Maia:_ yeah,, they are quite the handful ig, btw, did i make u uncomfortable with anything i tweeted ?

George’s eyes widen as he types his reply. His breath hitches in anticipation and well-tamed anticipation.

> _George:_ no, not rlly. Why?

The speech bubble beside Maia’s profile pops up and disappears for a second. It takes at least a minute for her to respond, and the entire time was just George anxiously hunched back watching the seconds pass.

> _Maia:_ ur cute george, and im saying that in the way friends do, not in the flirtatious way that everyone thinks i was tweeting. I didn’t mean for the flirting thing to be taken so seriously. I hope i didn't come off as misleading.

George’s eyes widen even wider at that. His finger goes against his mouth as he thinks about what the female indie singer just said.

Maia and George were both never looking for something romantic. Maia just misunderstood George’s joking reply as one of actual reciprocation, and now, she was feeling bad for supposedly leading George on.

> _George:_ what? You didn't mislead me at all, i thought we were just joking?
> 
> _Maia:_ OMG THANK GOD
> 
> _Maia:_ I WAS SO SCARED THAT YOU WERE SERIOUS I RLLY DIDNT WANT TO HURT YOU 
> 
> _Maia_ : im so sorry about all of that!! Im glad we could clear things up! :D
> 
> _George_ : its alright, glad we could. Besides, i feel as if even if we did date, there would still be something missing, so i’d just end up hurting you instead
> 
> _Maia_ : :(
> 
> _George_ : :(

Their texts bounced back and forth throughout an hour. With Geroge sending Maia a bunch of cursed images for her to rate as she wrote hilarious comments about them that made Geroge sputter and wheeze his lungs out. When it was all over, and the day turned darker for the British in London. So he wished the female artist off with a quaint goodbye. But before he turned off his phone, she sent one last text.

Maia is a good friend.

> Maia: and george? Word of advice 
> 
> George: what?
> 
> Maia: you’ll find what you're missing one day, maybe even sooner than you think.
> 
>   
>    
> 

George softly chuckles at her text without an afterthought. He sends her a cute gif of a cat rolling around with the caption saying ‘goodnight!!’ before walking over to his bedroom and promptly collapsing on the bed with a ‘ _thud_!’. The activities of earlier now taking their toll on his body and sinking him further into the plush mattress.

He mindlessly stares at his ceiling for a while, his mind scattered and unfocused, just him, and the foreboding silence that fills his empty, one person house. In some ways, it might be lonely, and sometimes that loneliness is heart wrenching, painful when it feels like the radio silence in his head is all he can hear, overall a bad day. He has them often now. But sometimes the silence is-- comforting, just him and his messy thoughts as he stares off into some uninteresting wall or object. 

In these times of loneliness is where the gate-keeped memories he's forcefully forgotten resurface to haunt him.

Then the comfort of his thoughts hit him, the loneliness peaks.

Why didn’t he feel that way for Maia? When he replied to her flirty tweets, it seemed almost empty. No true intention, just a _joke._ Why could that be? Maia’s sweet, kind and bubbly person who George enjoyed talking to daily. But she just didn’t have any place in his heart for her in a way that could be seen as more than just friends. So why could that? He couldn’t have just liked her for the sake of liking her?

_“You’ll find what you're looking for one day, maybe sooner than you think.”_

George turns to the empty side of his bed, so spacious and daunting. He grabs a pillow and hugs it tightly as he slowly drifts off to sleep, with the sound of cicadas and crickets outside his window. He’s cold but doesn’t have enough energy to even turn on the heater across the room. His heart, strangely empty with a hole he never bothered to fix.

He sinks into a dreamless sleep.

He wishes that sooner would come faster.

<3

  
  


The party is just something he has to attend by obligation, not by any sense of will.

The British singer is quite neutral about it honestly, he has no personal opinion over the lavish event. His face just hurts from all the smiling and waving that he had to do whenever the camera panned on him. The only time he ever did anything was to go up the stage to receive his one award. Just one, because Dream, the rising superstar swept up both best artist awards. And the household name, Technoblade, demolished everyone else by the music video category. Let’s just say, walking home with the best song was an honor by itself.

But it’s not like anybody actually attended to win the event. When they saw both powerhouses nominated, it was immediately an automatic loss. So the next best thing was the after-party.

And oh boy, when you have a bunch of A-list singers and performers all together in one penthouse in New York City? You know that not a single moment would be boring. With all of his friends that he found through networking and other formal galas, he’s safe to say that the night will not be boring nor lackluster.

He enters the doors to the lobby and enters the glass elevator with his agent beside him, who seems to be preoccupied with angrily typing on his phone. George never really bothered to learn his name, he’s just a stand-in for a moral support figure that his record label assigns him. He’s nothing more than a show of diplomacy than an actual figure in his career. 

George knows when they reach the penthouse suite, he can hear the electronic pop and RnB play from the outside of its gaudy doors. Loud and enigmatic, instantly a sight to behold when they enter. 

Flashing lights and disco chandeliers set the room’s fun tone. With multiple familiar faces crowding the floor and mingling amongst themselves. The smell of liquor and expensive cologne wafts around the room, almost clogging George’s nose with its show of wealth and power. 

His eyes directly find Sapnap, right in the middle of the dance floor doing some odd mix of tango and ballroom with Spifey. He’s laughing profusely, as he glides across the room on nimble feet with the other male singer. His energy is infectious because almost everyone around him seems to laugh and join along in his shenanigans. His face can’t help but form a smile when Sapnap’s eyes meet him and give a playful wink.

“George! My dude!”

Ponk loops an arm around Geroge’s neck with such a sudden force it nearly topples Geroge over. 

“Ponk!” He says with a frown, but his voice conveys his clear happiness to see his friend. “How are you?” he asks with a pout.

Ponk laughs, loud and booming, it resonates within the room like a seismic wave. “Alright, Alright. Congrats on best song!” He cheers loudly, gaining the attention of others around them. George bashfully hides the smile that curls on his lips from his friend’s kind words. Ponk and he became good friends when George first started his solo career separate from Dreamteam, easily getting along because of their British origin.

“It’s not a big deal, Techno won most of the awards,” he grumbles, trying to avoid looking into Punz’s exasperated gaze.

“But Geroge!” A new voice joins abruptly, George instantly recognizes that faint dutch accent lisping over his words.

“Techno always wins, like, everyone knows it. Winning just an award while Dream and he are in the running? A prize by itself.” Fundy laughs good-naturedly before swinging a flute of champagne down. George flushes again at that, it feels good to be validated amongst your equally famous peers.

“Speaking of competition, check out the bar!” Ponk interrupts excitedly. 

George glances over to the large indoor bar on the side of the penthouse. There sit two men, both jokingly hitting each other whilst they hold two shot glasses in their hands. They clink their glasses together as George watches them both gulp down their drinks in a single chug. 

Ponk and Fundy let out a string of guffaws and chortles as they both converse about the events in their life. George is only half listening; however, his eyes occasionally can’t help but make themselves take over to the blonde man at the bar, who’s presence is so enigmatic and charming that it demands George’s attention. 

He doesn’t know how to describe it.

He tells himself not to look, forces his mind to stare at Ponk and Fundy as they laugh about some whitewashed drama. But it feels like every bone in his body aches to turn his head ever so slightly to the side, just to catch the smallest glimpse of the man dressed in cladding, leaning ever so handsomely on the bar counter, nursing a glass of liquor in his hands.

He ignores the throbbing speculation, the all-consuming intuition- that maybe- if he looks back, he’ll meet his eyes.

Maybe he's just hoping for too much.

“--orge! George hey!” 

His eyes flash upwards, causing his entire body to wobble over for a second. He’s quickly steadied by a hand on his arm that pulls him forward. 

“Oh, Sapnap.” He says, aghast and slightly dazed. His eyes meet dark brown, looking at him worriedly. “Hello, lovely dancing you were doing earlier. Didn’t know someone could resemble a dying giraffe so much.”

Sapnap’s look of concern double-takes and turns into a sour pout, he lets go of George’s arm and holds his arms close to his chest. George can’t help but hide the bubbling laugh that arises in his throat. He lets out a string of disarrayed giggles that make his friend frown even more.

“You know what, because of that. I refuse to hang out with you now.” he gives George a sullen look while he dramatically holds his heaving chest, “you’ve wounded me so badly. I don’t know how I’ll ever recover from such a blow.”

George giggles again, his cheeks blowing up as he desperately tries to contain them but fails. “Sapnap, stop it.” he tries to say assertively, but he bets he’ll be taken seriously at all when he looks like a bloated chipmunk. 

Sapnap sighs, he fans himself with his fans like some sort of whining damsel. “I don’t know George! Whatever shall I do?.” He says in an octave higher, in a mocking impersonation of his British accent.

George smirks obnoxiously, as he feigns himself to Sapnap’s dramatics. “Oh, whatever shall I do to make it up to you?”

Sapnap put his hands on his waist jokingly and sways around, he’s at least half intoxicated.

“Let’s party!” he yells eagerly, rolling on the balls of his feet so he sways around in some solo drunk performance, this is the perfect blackmail on his friend.

And George thinks about it for a moment. He hesitantly looks at Sapnap’s figure with eyes filled with reluctance. It’s almost as if there’s this feigning voice telling him in the back of his head ‘ _he’s watching_ ’ that makes George’s whole body shiver.

_He’s not watching_ , his subconscious tells himself, _he doesn’t care about you_.

Why would he?

“George?” Sapnap asks again, the worried lilt in his voice returning. George immediately snaps out of it. He gives the American bassist a wobbly smile of reassurance as he walks next to the wild partygoer.

“There’s alcohol right?” He questions tentatively, his hands fiddling with the cufflinks of his suit. Sapnap’s face lights up like a child on Christmas day, it’s comically fitting for someone of his caliber. He looks so incredibly happy to just be hanging out with George, and Geroge can admit that he is too. It’s been forever since they both hung out together in their solo careers.

“Wait-- you don’t like alcohol though?” He inquired, eyebrows raised suspiciously. George waves his hand dismissively at the comment and prompts to start walking to the dance floor without him.

“George, no wait! I’m sorry! I’ll find you all the tequila tonight, lets get wasted!” he says jovially, skipping his step as he wraps an arm around George’s neck like a hook. George laughs loudly, face free with mirth and excitement. He’s glad he agreed to attend the afterparty now. 

As he walks further into the dancefloor, he makes sure not to turn back and look at the man at the bar who probably isn’t even looking back.

He wants to forget about tonight.

</3

Geroge takes one drink, it’s just a pipe of champagne he tells himself, with Sapnap’s rambunctious coaxing, the one flute turns into three-- and then by the time he knows notices that he’s drunk at least half a dozen flutes of the fizzing liquid, Sapnap beside him is ushering him to the dancefloor to an impromptu dance battle.

Mainly it’s just Sapnap aggressively head bopping to some alternative pop while swaying his body wildly to the rhythm. He also somehow ropes George into it, but at least George is half sensical enough not to bump into the crowds of people who make way for them both.

George swears that he hadn’t laughed this much in ages. As he and Sapnap do an odd mix of tango and breakdancing, his body erupts with fits of shrieks of chuckles and giggles. It’s the type of laughter that spreads across his whole body, where his stomach lurches and cramps, and his head steers in pain from how happy he is. 

He’s so blissfully unaware of how much fun he’s having until he’s pulled aside by Eret and Callahan to take a sip of water and calm down. Sapnap is beside him too, still buckling over and swaying from side to side as he waxes poetic about how much of a good friend George is. 

“Man, Sap is absolutely destroyed. Glad you could hold your liquor at least George.” Callahan says with an amused smile. George gratefully takes the glass his friend had so kindly offered him and takes large gulps down to wash the taste of booze from his palette.

“Had to grow a tolerance whenever Sap would take us clubbing.” He snorts. Those were the days of the Dreamteam, the rising band that spread across the industry like an untameable fire. Before days of fear and unease.

“It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it then?” Callahan notes with a soft reminiscing tone. George smiles into his cup.

“It has.”

Callahan is a good company, nice and timidly talkative. He’s new to the industry and openly admired George ever since his career as an entertainer started, or so he says. So, George takes it upon himself to be a mentor like a figure to the other man. Giving him tips and advice from how to find inspiration, to how to handle fame and fans.

He was the figure that George didn’t have when he started his career. Sure he had their band manager, Bad. But they don’t keep in contact anymore since the band went their separate ways. Ever since then, George has been on his own. Building his name and brand with only the remnants of what he had with Dreamteam. It was hard work, with contracts and deadlines from records that constantly pushed their clients to their limit. But George is no quitter, he was dust before he turned into superstar gold.

He tells Callahan to be strict about what he posts, he tells him that he should never give too much of himself to the public. Because once they get invested they never leave you alone.

He doesn’t want the cycle to repeat.

“Hey, George,” Callahan whispers to him. 

The fact that he’s whispering in the first place catches his attention. He raises his eyebrows and asks “What?” 

“Ok so listen,” he tries to say calmly, but all George can note is the clear rising panic in Callahan’s eyes. “Don’t turn around.”

And like the smartass he is--, he turns around.

“ _George!_ ” Callahan all but shrieks loudly. But George is still on the tipping line of half sober and completely drunk. So nonetheless, he still turns around. What could be so terrible that Callahan was screaming his ear off in pure terror? How bad could it be? Thought tipsy Geroge.

And _oh,_

That’s why.

“Hi,”

There’s something oddly poetic about the entire scenario. 

It runs like a scene from an old-timey nineties movie, played on a vintage cassette stowed away under the dust and forgotten memories. The film is barely usable, yet it still plays. With fraying edges and cuts in between footage, but it still plays. It evokes such a deep feeling within George, something that's been cast away for so long that it feels as if he’d purposefully hidden it for years. With its fraying edges and cuts, the scene still plays out.

“Hey?” he says as a question. In all kindness, he wouldn’t even want to respond at all. But the liquid courage bubbling inside him unwinds the confines of all moral ambiguity and lets his mouth run.

Dream’s eyes have this fort of hazy sheen covering them, unfocused. With that, George can immediately tell that he’s drunk.

“It’s been a while.” The blonde says primly, the slur in his words is well hidden by how fast he talks. George tilts his head to the side as if questioning him.

“It has.” Is all he replies.

They share a tense silence, with George still occasionally sipping his glass of water as he waits for Dream to say more. It takes all his will to calm the mess that is his thoughts. 

Dream shifts his weight between his legs. Rolling on the balls of his feet. He keeps his hands hidden in the pockets of his slacks. He bites his lips, opens his mouth then instantly closes it. He looks lost, and George can’t help but sympathize. He looks as if the words he had planned to stay are now superglued to the roof of his mouth.

So he saves them both the awkwardness and asks;

“What do you need?”  
  
It’s plain, simple, and sharp. And it seems to do the trick. Dream looks caught off guard, left aghast. With his mouth parted slightly and eyes fully open. He looks surprised George is even talking to him at all.

“I was wondering,” He pulls one of his hands out of the pockets of his trousers and extends it outwards to George. “If I could ask you for a dance?”

George stares at his open hand.

And almost chokes.

His mind goes into overdrive. With the sober part of him trying hard to control his facial expression so it doesn’t mirror the chaos that is his brain right now.

_Don’t take his hand! Can’t you see? He’s drunk and doesn’t mean it! You’re only going to end up embarrassing yourself. You’re only going to end up hurt!_ The sober and rational part of his conscious screams. Flashing red lights onto Dream’s waiting figure. He considers his answer, before deciding on it. He opens his mouth to respond--

_But what if he does?_ Something else whispers in the back of his head, it’s faint and soft, but at the same time, it sounds like the loudest voice in the room. _What if you take his hand? What will happen after?_

Geroge is left breathless at the thought. What will happen after?

_Don’t do it! He hurt you! He’ll do it again. What shows he changed--_

The screaming peaks, it gets so loud and high to the point where it becomes white noise. He wants to cover his ears, he wants his thoughts to stop. Albeit amid all the yelling and shouting of his subconscious, the soft and quaint voice returns, louder this time.

_He never hurt you. They did. Now, if you want to know what happens next. Take his hand._

The thought of the unknown fills him up with dread but at the same time, his curiosity calls through the fear. Ushering him to leap into the abyss of the undiscovered that he’s aware would drastically change everything he knows. Somehow, through all the clouded mystery, he knows that he’ll be alright by the end of all of it. The call of the unknown, the curiosity-

All makes him take Dream’s hand.

Dream looks utterly thrilled. He squeezes George’s hand as if to feel that he was assuring himself that George was there.

“So? Take me to dance already.” 

And Dream does, he glides them both over to the center of the dance floor. 

As if they were actually stuck in some old-timey romance movie, the Dj starts to play a slow song. 

“I have to warn you. I am a terrible dancer.” He states as he hesitantly puts his hand on Dream’s forearm. Dream lets out a low sounding chuckle, and since their bodies are pressed together by the crowd around them, George is close enough to feel the heat radiating against Dream’s body.

“You can’t be that bad.” He smiles kindly at George, and the smaller male can’t help but avoid his fond gaze. He doesn’t want Dream to see the rising heat that paints his skin. He’s already embarrassed enough.

They follow a slow pace, with Dream taking the lead and guiding George to the soft accompanist of violins and cellos. Dream’s hand firmly and politely placed on this the crease of his back. With his other hand holding George’s as he sways them around the room. He has to admit, he sinks into the tender hold of Dream’s weight as he tries desperately not to trip on his own feet.

Contrary to popular belief; Geroge isn’t good at everything, as much as his fans try to deny it. One of those things is dancing. The closest thing he can get to a somewhat decent flow of movements is excitedly jumping on stage when the beat drops during a concert. People normally just say he gets hyper and bounces across the stage but in reality, it’s just his poor mix of leg and eye coordination. 

Right now, he’s trying not to trip on his own feet. Maybe it’s just genetics that makes him such a disaster on the dance floor. Maybe it’s the alcohol that makes his already hazardous moves even more terrible than they already are. Maybe it’s the way he’s so hyper-focused on his feet that he doesn’t even notice that he’s trailing off to the edge of the floor.

He doesn’t even know he’s falling until Dream catches him.

Metaphorically of course. 

He lets out a gasp, his feet lose their balance and he’s cusping over the edge. But before his body can make the harsh impact, a strong force pulls him upwards, with an alarming amount of strength that it almost topples him over. 

“I got you.”

_You got me._

Dream has a look of panic etched into his chiseled features as he holds George’s hand tightly in his. He eyes Geroge’s shocked expression before quickly letting go of his tight hold, averting his eyes so he can hide the poorly veiled dusty pink that spreads across his cheeks.

They stare at each other for a second. Before bursting into a fit of drunken giggles. Well, George is more of the one who giggles. Dream lets out a sound that resembles a boiling tea kettle as he doubles over in laughter. The unconscious smile on George’s face morphs into a beaming grin as he hiccups and giggles.

“Oh my god--” Dream says in between his kettle like wheezes. “You’re actually _bad_ ” 

George tries to look offended but he can’t even keep off the dorky smile off his face. “Shut up! I told you I wasn’t the best.”

Dream laughs even harder at that, “Yeah but you tripped over- over your own feet.” 

George pouts, but the corner of his lips curl into the smallest of smiles. 

“Yeah yeah I did-- stop hacking out a lung now.” He crosses his arms, “You said you wanted to dance with me, not laugh.”

George can see it. The way Dream’s eyes go soft and tender, how his loud guffaws turn into light, breezy chuckles. How he takes George by the waist and glides them back onto the center and gently creases the inside of George’s hand with his thumb.

He’s finding out all these things he’s long forgotten, like that old cassette tape.

“I did ask you to dance with me, I’m no coward.” He remarks proudly while turning George to the side and carefully dipping his back. 

“Just focus on me.”

Dream extends his arm to spin George, then closes them back down to bring the smaller man back into his delicate embrace. Dream holds George like he’s porcelain. Gentle with the way he turns and spins him. Always holding his waist so he doesn’t trip and fall again. All at the same time, he looks at George as if he was the only person in the room.

He only focuses on Dream.

And notices so many things,

He stares into his light, marigold eyes. They feel so familiar to him, looking at them just makes George feel like he was coming home to a place he had long left. How they glimmer and gleam like unpolished gemstones that men like him cannot fathom their price. They look at him so earnestly that George feels unworthy under his gaze.

How the harsh neon lights of the dance floor paint his wavy blonde hair in their bright colors. How the spotlights outline the curves of his face, and draw out their features, making it appear like he was glowing. 

He notices the faintest speckles of freckles on his nose and cheeks. How they’re slowly showing through the concealer he was wearing. He silently counts them, inside he knows all of them by heart. He’s counted them before, on slow days where they lie in each other’s presence, basking in the comfort of one another. 

His touch lingers on his skin, even through the material of his clothing he can feel the heat radiating off his calloused fingertips. How he soothes the static under George’s skin with all but his wavering caresses. He’s warm.

He notices all these things, all these wonderful things about him. Like the old cassette tape hidden under all the dust and forgotten memories. George is slowly fixing it’s fraying edges and filling in its gaps.

He's utterly entranced, enamored by this man in front of him. This man who feels so warm and radiant, who're hands cradle him like they're the most precious thing in the world. Who're eyes are splattered colors of yellow and tawny, and with cheeks dusted with stardust. This man who feels like returning to a home George thought he would never go back to. This man who's like that old forgotten cassette tape, damaged and forgotten yet _fixable._

And George wouldn’t have him any other way.

It feels nostalgic, to be waltzing with him to the slow hum of music in a crowded room filled with a-list celebrities. 

It feels so _right._

He’s incredibly glad he took his hand.

He doesn’t blame it on the alcohol anymore, it’s all but his own heart, laid beautifully in front of him as he lets down his walls and let's Dream in.

And when Dream, looks at him as if he’s asking permission. George looks back. And when Dream slowly cranes his neck down for George, and George tip toes upwards to meet awaiting lips-

And when Dream kisses him. He lets him.

And it feels like the most normal thing in the world.

His kisses burn, like a disinfectant to the closed wounds he’s now reopening. They’re painstakingly gentle, soft, and light. With George’s chapped lips pressed firmly against Dream’s softer ones. He can feel Dream’s hands crawl up to his shoulder blades, holding him steady as they kiss. 

They pull away, both panting lightly as they stare into each other eyes. Questioning their next step.

Dream looks almost desperate, his tone pleading when he coaxes “George--”

He doesn’t have time to finish. George pulls him back into it. He kisses him harder this time, hoping to convey all his deep-buried feelings into it. 

They feel like fire, all-consuming, and passionate. With its heat warming his cold heart.

Like maelstroms, sucking him in further and further until he runs out of the air and starts to drown in what seems like a bottomless pit of feelings that begin to resurface. George wants more-- he wants to feel.

Dream sinks into the kiss, he sighs into it. His arms circling George’s waist. The need to push their bodies closer together is almost painful. He wants to feel the warmth radiating off Dream, he wants to make up for all the lost time they have.

When they break apart again, they’re both gasping for air. George relishes in the sight of Dream’s adorably flushed face and slightly red lips. It only drives George’s wanting to the point of desire. So he takes advantage of his height to trail kisses from the blonde’s freckled cheeks to his jawline. Making sure to peck every place he had missed for the past 2 years.

He wants to memorize every single crook and crevice there is to him. He wants to adore his eyes and stare into them on days on end. He wants to peck every individual freckle on his face.

He wants so ferociously that it _scares_ him.

_Let me be selfish_ , the small voice cries. George realizes it was never the rational part of him, rather, the longing feeling in his heart that finally knocked some sense into him.

_Let me be selfish._

When Dream lets out a small whine when his mouth separates from his skin. He looks down at George with a look that George can’t decipher. But he doesn’t need to know, the hands trailing down his back conveys it all.

“Are you--”

“My hotel is only a minute away.” 

Dream quirks his lips into one of the most attractive grins that George’s ever seen. It makes him blush more than the passionate make out that they just had a second ago. 

Dream takes his hand, as they make their way out of the crowds of people and into the elevator. Even in some way, George just wants to touch the blonde singer. Even if it’s just him squeezing his hand.

They make their way outside the building in hurried steps. George leads them both to the side of the road where they can easily catch an oncoming cab. As they both impatiently await the arrival of the yellow car, something flashes in his face.

**_Snap!_ ** _  
  
_

Before George can see the face of the person holding the camera, the cab slows down by the curb and Dream is ushering them both inside. 

He knows he should be worried, absolutely terrified. But he just can’t bring himself to care right now. Not when he’s fumbling with the keycard to his hotel room, not when he and Dream topple on top of his pristine and untouched bed, not when Dream’s face is pressed fervently against George’s. 

He’s too busy loving Drea-- _Clay_ right now to care about anything else.

_Wait._

His eyes snap open. He’s instantly filled with something other than the unbearable desire he has right now. It’s a sudden realization, a moment where the entire world freezes.

At this moment, when he’s slowly removing the layers of clothing off their bodies. When he can feel Clay’s hot breaths against his as he melts into his hold. When it’s just them, in this hotel bed on nothing but liquor and overly suppressed feelings. When it’s George, putting down all his defenses and laying out his bruised heart to this equally bruised man who he loves.

_Clay._

He loves Clay.

He loves-

_Fuck._

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh yeah, smash smash but i dont write the smash. this was- really rushed and overplayed but hey! its something? uuhhh pls comment ur thoughts and what u like (the validation keeps me going) I'm sorry if this was angsty as fuck, there's more angst on the way BUT I SWEAR THEYRE HAPPY IN THE END. ur comments make my day and I'm always glad to hear feedback. 
> 
> anyways yall ready for what the media is gonna think when that picture's posted?
> 
> ;))))


	4. 4: now playing: over the ocean call by lizzy mcalpine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the day after, dream's perspective with some realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so--
> 
> this is probably the weakest chapter yet. like ngl i had to fit this in too a tight knit schedule of online classes and writing my other two oneshots- hence the delay. so yeah. if the writing is extra shitty the chapter then that's my half assed excuse

“Clay.”

A disembodied voice calls out his name. It sounds so oddly recognizable. Sweet and sickly as it echoes in the barren land of his mind. 

“ _Clay_.”

The voice calls again. This time sharper, like a blunt edge of a knife pressed against his throat. His eyes slowly flutter open. White light fills his vision, blinding and pure before slowly fading away.

“ **_Clay_ ** _._ ”

Dream flinches this time. The disembodied voice’s tone was like poison drenched in honey, invoking a sense of dread in the bottom of his stomach. 

Dream knew instantly that something was wrong when his vision finally cleared, to where he could vaguely see his surroundings. He was in his penthouse apartment in Florida, but the chairs and couches were placed in a different order, and the curtains were that bright blue that he hadn’t seen in years. Plants still hung from the ceiling and were potted near his kitchen stove. He doesn’t own plants that’s for sure, he had what’s the exact opposite of a green thumb. The only person who keeps succulents near the window silt is--

He snaps his gaze to the person calling him out. 

There stands George, face tear-stained, wearing a hoodie that Dream swore he lost years ago.

“George?” His voice barely a whisper. His hands automatically go to wipe the runny red-tinted lines on his cheeks away, but George instantly flinches the moment he raises his hand. 

_“We can’t do this anymore, Clay,”_ George mutters softly, curling a tight fist around the hem of Dream’s-- _his_ jacket. 

Dream is left aghast. Those words sounded so _familiar._ As if he had already heard them before. His heart drops to his stomach, knees buckling, and threatening to break under the weight of his dread. Bottomless and mortifying.

“Geor--” Dream chokes on his words, his throat swelling up before he can finish. He can’t breathe--

“ _I’m sorry,”_ George sobs, the tears beginning to form in his red-rimmed eyes. “ _I--I just can’t handle everything-- everyone! Just watching us_.”

Dream tries to scream, but his lips are sealed shut by some invisible force, rendering him mute. He’s unable to consolidate George, he can’t comfort George who is sobbing hysterically in front of him. Fat tears running down his stained cheeks.

He extends his arm forward, hoping-- begging for George to notice his silent pain. Willing his lips to open and scream apology after apology, _anything_ to make George stop crying. 

George stammers as he tries relentlessly to lighten the blow of his words. _"Why does everyone have to watch me when I just want it to be you? I don't want eyes to be on us--"_

Around Dream, the ground slowly starts to quake, the marble tiles on the floor crack and split. The world around him crumbles and disintegrates, all while George stands in front of him, with eyes of cerulean, glimmering unshed tears.

_“I love you, Clay, that’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. I’m just not strong enough for both of us. I’m sorry I brought you down.”_ George manages a faint smile, filled with anguish. He stifles his tears as the world breaks apart around them. He starts clawing at his throat, scratching and peeling away at his skin in a desperate attempt to shout. 

“Geo-”

_“Goodbye. Dream.”_

The ground below him finally breaks. He fumbles with his footing as he tries to run towards George, who just stands there as he watches the world around him collapse. A sad smile graces his face, he lifts his hand to wave him goodbye as Dream falls into the abyss below.

He reaches out his arm and--

He wakes up.

  
  
  
  


**_GEORGE NOT FOUND DATING AGAIN? WITH A-LIST SINGER DREAM?_ **

_An article by XXXX, published by Daily Mirror_

Famous A-listing pop singer _Georgenotfound_ or otherwise known as only George, seen entering The Langham Hotel in New York Central after the MTV VMA afterparty with a certain confidant in arms. New and Best Artist winner, Clay Hudson, also known as a worldwide sensation, _Dream_. 

Seen on the outside streets of the after-party’s venue, holding hands and waiting for a cab. They both looked at least semi intoxicated when our photographer (XXXX of Daily Mirror) was able to take a photo of them both before they entered the vehicle.

_[Image: George and Dream stand by the curb, the angle makes it hard to see- but from how close they’re pressed together it’s most likely they’re holding hands.]_

If you don’t know the history of these two celebrities, then you’re most definitely living under a rock. Both members are part of the short-lived sensation that was _DreamTeam,_ consisting of both singers, including former bassist _Sapnap_ and or Nick Angelos. Dominating the industry with their music, and infectious dynamic.

Although due to a miscommunication incident, it was revealed that George and Dream were dating within the band. The reveal led to their breakup and the eventual fall of the band. Now 2 years later it seems that they both may have reconciled with each other, and if so, may date again.

It’s also good to mention Dream’s up and coming to unnamed Album, does George have any say in this? What will the record label do with the sudden surge of this drama? What about the aforementioned flirting with indie singer Mxmtoon? Was it all just a revenue ploy? Will Dream release an official statement--

  
  
  
  
  
  


“That’s the fourth one so far.” 

Bad sits in the back of a moving car, anxiously scrolling through twitter and news feeds about his client sleeping with his former boyfriend. He just can’t seem to get a break, can he? 

“Gosh darn it, Dream, you stupid muffin. What have you gotten yourself into?” Bad mutters to himself. Swiping away from his browser and opening his contact list instead. With a shaky breath, he taps on Dream’s contact again.

“C’ mom muffin...pick up.” The line rings for a few seconds, Bad tries biting on his cuticles in an attempt to calm his frantic nerves.

_Ring…_

_ring..._

On the other end of the line, Dream wakes up from a nightmare. 

He lurches upwards, gasping for any semblance of air as his hands grasp at his throat. He is instantly blasted by the cold breeze of the room, hitting his bare chest and making him shiver.

He takes in a breath, then another. He does until he finally falls back into a normal breathing pattern. The adrenaline in his body slowly starts to filter out, and he can feel the toll of inertia seep through him, making his movements languid as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

The nightmare-- he-- he can’t remember the nightmare. 

A tall shadow of a brooding figure looming over him as he falls into the abyss below. He can still remember the feeling of his lips being sewn shut. His throat swelling to the point where he couldn’t scream as he fell. The sudden sadness that filled his entire being when he was in the nightmare. 

_“Goodbye, Dream”_

He feels something run down his face. He brushes a hand against his cheek. He wipes away a single, wet tear that managed to stream down to his chin without him noticing. The figure in his nightmare was crying too. 

Who--

Before he can even finish his thought, his phone promptly begins to ring. The ear-splitting noise that sends a shock wave of pain to Dream’s head. 

_“Shit!”_ he curses loudly. Reaching for his phone on the bedside table.

It’s cold in his hands, the smooth metallic framing sending chills down his spine. He absentmindedly presses the answer call button without a second thought, all in hopes to stop the loud ringing. 

“Hello?” He cringes internally at how sleep ridden his voice sounds, makes it obvious that he had just woken up, unprofessional Bad would say.

Speaking of Bad, he promptly begins to scream into Dream’s ear.

“ _Dream!_ ” He all but screeches. Dream winces, a sharp sting of pain smacks him in the head. He lets out a low whine, clutching his throbbing head in one of his hands while he hisses through the pain.

“Ugh, Bad what is it?” he inquires, vaguely annoyed.

“Dream, stay where you are. We’re coming to get you.” Bad says stiffly, voice stern, and professional. Completely devoid of all the _niceness_ his manager is known for. It sends a haunting chill down his spine. “Please, do _not_ go outside.”

Dream is suddenly very confused, and very concerned, both at the same time as he replies, “Bad what? What’s going on?” 

There’s eerie silence after he said that. Dream checks his phone to see whether Bad hung up or not.

“Clay,” Bad said sharply. The tone in his voice along with the mention of his real name fills him up with consternation. He feels like a child being scolded by his parents after being caught in the act of something naughty. “You don’t know what’s going on?”

Dream pauses before answering with a tentative “No?” 

“Clay they saw--”

  
  


“ _Ugh.”_

  
  


The sudden groan makes both Bad and Dream shut up instantly.

“Clay is that--”

Dream tunes out the sound of Bad’s concerned yelling over the phone. He’s too busy hyper-analyzing the fact that the bedsheets beside him have just _moved_. His body instantly freezes up, the urge to get up and just run away from whatever it is, screams inside his head. 

His heart pounds inside his ears. He slowly cranes his neck to the side.

Beside him is a man.

With skin, soft and luminescent in the warm glow of the sunlight that streams through the blinds. Highlighting messy brown hair, that seems to stick up sporadically around the sides. His quiet snores fill the emptiness of the room. He looks to be bare-chested as well--or that’s what he can see from where the sheets cover the rest.

Beside him is George.

Sleeping, peaceful, but most importantly, half-naked.

Dream doesn’t know what to feel about it.

Dream, as quietly as he can. Turns back to his phone and whispers breathlessly. “ _Help._ ”

Bad, the responsible, sympathetic, and ultimately smart person he is has already deciphered why Dream is whispering to him on the phone. “Stay calm Clay.” 

He can hear Dream’s breath quicken, coming out forced and pained. “Bad, please, you gotta get me out of here. He’s--”

“Clay, calm down. I’m already headed there ok? I’m almost there.” Bad assured him, asking the driver in the front seat to start breaking the speed limit. “I’m going to stay with you on the phone. You need to calm down first.”

Dream nodded. Accepting all the reassurance he could get from his manager. 

Dream, even though hectic and overwhelmed, knew he couldn’t stay in the same bed as sleeping George much longer. The smart and rational part of him decided to get up as slowly as possible. Looking around the room for his pants and dress shirt, he found them thrown haphazardly over the recliner in the corner of the room.

Hastily dressed, while constantly looking back to the British man on the bed. Dream felt something stir inside his stomach, something unpleasant. How did he even end up here in the first place? Judging from the agonizing headache from earlier, he was most definitely drunk the night before. Which somehow led to _this?_

_“You said you wanted to dance with me, not laugh.” George’s smiling figure says with a teasing lilt in his voice._

_“I did ask you to dance, I’m no coward.” He remarks proudly, spinning a laughing George around before dipping him in the middle of the dance floor_

_“Just focus on me--”_

Oh. 

Oh shit, that’s why.

He snaps his gaze back to Goerge on the bed, peacefully sleeping all while Dream has his dilemma. 

Would George even remember all of that? Their dance? Their conversation? He wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t, Dream thought bitterly. They were both high off liquid courage and the thrill of sex. There’s nothing more to it, no feelings, no mistakes. It was all just a night because of circumstances.

Right?

The way George laughed still echoes through his mind. His pink tinted cheeks and dopey smile, still burned into his eyelids. How he tripped on his toes and swayed awkwardly to the music around them. The way George looked at him, no feelings, no mistakes, all just circumstances.

Right?

_“I got you,”_

Dream bites his lip. He’s got no time to sort out his feelings for the British singer. He fixes the collar of his shirt. Trying his best to make himself seem as clean, and presentable as possible, leaving no evidence of the night before behind. Holding his chin high, presenting himself with all the dignity and pride one of a celebrity would have.

But that’s not who he really is, isn’t he?

He takes one last look at George on the bed. An unconscious smile crawls its way onto his face. George wouldn’t remember, he most likely wouldn’t anyways. They were both drunk, and if he left now, George would probably think it was all some lucid dream.

George wouldn’t willingly remember him anyways.

And with one last glance, he tries to memorize the rise and fall of George’s chest. The way his breaths come out in small puffs, how he sometimes scrunches his nose even while sleeping, He takes one last chance to see George.

Before he closes the door and never comes back.

  
  
  
  


Bad waits outside the car by the lobby’s entrance. His hand firm on his phone, brimming with a mix of worry and frustration. He can see the photographers and journalists outside by the curb, ready to snap a photo the moment Dream comes out of the building. 

He doesn’t know if he should be frustrated at Dream or the media.

“ _Bad, I’m heading down to the lobby._ ” the staticky voice says through the phone. Bad now has to mentally and physically prepare himself for what’s to come.

He signals the bodyguards to move with him, as they walk past the group of camping paparazzi. They immediately catch the notice of him, however, like hawks spotting their prey. They instantly begin to flock to him as he treks past to the lobby’s doors.

_“_ I’m heading towards you now.” Bad response back, pushing the glass doors of the hotel entrance. The receptionist looks at him weirdly, but ultimately gives them a friendly wave and keeps her head down. 

“Bad!” 

Bad snaps his head to the right, there stands Dream. Hair ruffled and messy wearing last night’s undershirt and slacks. He jogs lightly over to them, a tentative smile gracing his face.

Bad doesn’t respond, however. He crosses his arms and wears the look of an exasperated parent. Dream’s expression turns crestfallen when he sees the look of disappointment in his manager’s eye, he caves in, like a small child in the shadow of his parents. 

When Bad sees the shaken look on Dream's face, his facade falls. He really can’t stay mad at his dullard of a client for that long. Not when he’s taken up the role of being the adult figure in his life. He lets out a heavy sigh, his arms falling flat to his side.

“That was a stupid thing you did,” He starts sternly. “I’m gonna have to work extra hard to clear your name in time for the album’s release.”

Dream shrinks in even more under the weight of his words.”I’m sorry.” He mutters.

Bad’s tone slowly turns gentle. “Though, I can’t say it was completely your fault. I didn’t supervise you enough.” He laments.

Dream looks up, surprised that his manager was blaming himself for his stupid actions. He opens his mouth to protest, but he’s instantly shut down by Bad. Who looks at him worriedly, scared even. He glances around the lobby as if looking for people who might potentially eavesdrop on their conversation. 

“Dream. They have pictures of you and George.” 

_Shit._

Dream’s face whitens. Eyes blown wide in shock and bewilderment. He tries again to speak, but the words he wants to say seem to be stuck to the top of his mouth. He’s too stunned to even manage a coherent sentence.

“Here.”

Bad hands him his phone. On the screen is a gossip article website. He’s right there, on the front page, in dim lighting and barely recognizable, but he’s _there._ Standing on the curb with George as they enter a yellow street cab.

He’s really, _really_ fucked up.

“Bad--” He manages breathlessly. His breath begins to quicken, and his knees wobble. They did it. They did it again.

He’s ruined, George.

“ _I--I just can’t handle everything-- everyone! Just watching us_.”

He’s ruined them. He’s ruined them both.

“Dream--”

Things have repeated themselves, Dream thinks. He’s relapsing. Reliving a memory and making it anew from the bellows of his mind. He’s stringing up a chain of disasters all over again. Bringing down people as he goes. He’s being a burden again--

“ _Clay._ You need to breathe.” 

He can’t. He is drowning in a sea of guilt. The shore is miles away, a promised paradise of release, but the waves and currents push him away farther and farther until slowly it is out of sight. The water, slowly rising with the tides, it hides his tears as it suffocates him. Filling his throat with the shame of his actions.

He can’t breathe. He can’t--

_"Why does everyone have to watch me when I just want it to be you? I don't want eyes to be on us--"_

They’ll never leave them alone. Even when they’re not even together. The world just wants to pick them apart, dissect them, and put them under a magnifying glass of its judgemental eye. They’ll never be able to escape. As long as the chains of stardom ground them onto tight-lipped smiles, forced laughs. They’re circus animals, there to sit and gawk for their entertainment.

He can’t--

“Clay. Please, we need to go.” Bad cries out through the thrashing of guilt and waves. His voice is muffled, yet barely audible. The panic in it is evident as he shakes Dream’s shoulders. Trying desperately to fish him out of the ocean that’s surrounding him.

“B-Bad.” He sputters. He wants to leave. He _needs_ to leave.

Bad looks at him, eyes gleaming with unease and worry. He frowns, placing a hand on the small on Dream’s back. Leading him to the glass doors of the hotel lobby.

“Keep your head down,” He whispers, pushing the glass doors open.

The blinding flash of lights fills his vision. The shutter of cameras clogs his ears. He whimpers softly, his manager squeezes his shoulder, trying his best to push away all the nagging reporters that crowd around them. 

“Dream! What’s your affiliation with George?!” 

Stop it.

“Dream, over here! Are you dating celebrity singer Georgenotfound again?!”

_Stop it._

“Dream! Are you ready to even enter a relationship with George even after your previous breakup?!”

_Stop it_. He raises his hands to his ears, hoping to drown out the cries and pleas of the reporters around them. He shuts his eyes tight, unable to face the gaze of the camera. _Please, make them stop._

“Just hold on Clay, we’re almost to the car. Just stay with me ok?” Bad whispers gently in his ear.

By the time they get to the car. The crowd around them has grown to a full mob. Random bystanders gawk and stare at him from the sidelines, holding their phones close to their chest. Smiles board across their faces as they whisper and gossip on how big this is going to get on their stories and posts. His name being posted on their captions, his face plastered across their feeds. 

He was never a person to them anyways.

Bad gently urges him into the back seat of the vehicle. The volume of the rambunctious crowd outside has greatly diminished now that he’s safely secured on the plush leather seat. He watches, as the car begins to move and the crowd behind them slowly disappears into just a speck in the distance.

It’s temporary safety. They always come back sooner or later.

Bad flashes him a concerned look, his hand is still clutching his shoulder in a silent show of reassurance. 

“Don’t worry about it too much, I’ll handle all the PR.” Bad hesitated when he retreated his hand away from Dream’s quiet figure. He watched cautiously for any sign of rebuttal. “I’m not mad if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The silence between them continues until Dream begins to sob.

“Hey- hey what’s wrong?” Bad coaxed, his hand shooting back up to rub Dream’s back soothingly as the younger quietly sniffled.

_Everything wrong._ He thinks bitterly, gnawing anxiously on his lip. I'm wrong.

He’s back in the ocean of guilt, this time low tide. He can see the reflection of himself in the shallow water below. The waves slowly push against the sand and curl against his feet. His guilt is still there, yes, it will never go away. It’s just a haunting reminder that he’ll never be able to recuperate from what he's become.

He’ll always be stuck in this ocean of guilt, always a second away from drowning.

“I fucked up, Bad.” he sniveled, holding his arms close to his chest in a sort of one person hug. He stifles back the small, crystal-like tears that begin to make their way down his cheeks.

Why was he crying? He really shouldn't be crying.

“Clay,” Bad implored. “You didn’t do anything. You were drunk.” he tries to reason.

_Stop crying._

“That’s the point! I was _drunk_ , Bad.” he huffs, more tears stream down his face. “I was drunk when I was with George. I was drunk when we danced when we--”

Bad’s eyes widen, his mouth forms into an open _‘o’_ shape as he gawks at Dream’s silently sobbing figure. A metaphorical lightbulb shines over his head. He looks at Dream with reluctance, his jaw clenched tightly as he says:

“What are you feeling, Clay?”

Dream is still. The waves in the ocean go stagnant.

“What?” Dream asks, appalled.

Bad gives him a kind smile. Eyes soft and comforting as he continues, “I asked you what are you feeling?” 

The stillness of the ocean around him is almost jarring. The waves are perfectly calm and the water only rises to his knees. He stares at his reflection, red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks. 

_What does he feel?_

That’s never a question he needed to ask himself. It was always his fans first, him later. You never needed to ask the creator how they work when all you want is the content. So why bother? He was an entertainer, after all, people amuse themselves for his lifestyle, not his emotions. They came for the music, not the emotional baggage.

But yet, in this moving car with his manager, he’s being asked for the first time on what he’s feeling. 

What does he feel?

“I feel scared.”

Soon after he says that Dream slaps a hand over his mouth as if wanting to swallow back his words. He looks guilty at Bad, who just keeps his same, amiable smile on his face. Wordlessly coaxing Dream to continue.

“I-- I feel scared because I don’t know what I’m feeling? I don’t know what to feel about-- all of this.” He gestures wildly to the area around them. Bad chuckles lightly at that.

Dream sits there, pondering at his mish-mash of thoughts while Bad gently consolidates him. He really does feel like a child again, with Bad as his parent-like figure helping him sort out the colossal mess that is his emotions.

“That’s ok, Clay. You can feel scared.” Bad consoled softly. “Being scared is ok.”

With the sounds of the bustling city outside the car window and the faint noise of the radio. Dream is finally considering _himself,_ as an option.

“Now, what do you feel about George?” His manager inquires softly. 

“What?” 

Bad looks at him, eyebrows raised and questioning.

Dream _doesn’t_ know what to say. He doesn’t know what to feel about George because he’s spent most of his time pushing away the thought of him. George was always a sour topic to converse about, and by the time that he had known, everyone around him knew never to mention George to him. So what would he feel about George if he’s never even tried thinking about it?

How do you find the words to describe someone you barely try to think about?

He looks back to Bad, whose smile is tender and encouraging. As if he’s wordlessly telling him to speak his heart out. To let all his walls crumble down and let his emotions run.

And so he does.

What does _he_ feel about George?

“I think he’s stupid.” Dream huffs, trying to find the words to explain his feelings. “You should’ve seen him while we were dancing Bad, he was tripping over his own feet like some newborn child. I was the one to guide us during the waltz, George was just going along with it too.” 

Dream brings his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly as he begins to ramble. 

“You _really_ should have seen him Bad. Couldn’t stop laughing every single minute. Though I really didn’t mind that much, he has a cute laugh-- shit wait no, it’s not cute-- well I mean it _is_ but his smile is cuter.”

The knowing grin on Bad’s face increases, tenfold.

“He has a really nice smile, Bad. The one where his dimples show too, did you know he has dimples?” slowly, a wistful smile unconsciously makes its way onto his face.

“You can’t really see them unless you look _really_ closely, they’re close to his lips, but not too far where they’re directly on his cheeks. Like those mouth corner dimples things.”

Dream chuckles softly, “Though his laugh is cute I guess. It’s all hiccupy and quiet, but he always does try to tone it down. He shouldn’t though, it sounds beautiful.”

“He’s beautiful.” 

When the realization of his words hits, it’s already too late for Dream to take back his words.

George is beautiful. Dream thinks George is the most beautiful thing to ever the fucking earth. And he says it with all the fervent confidence he can muster.

Dream looks back to Bad, who has an en equally shocked expression as him.

“I think I get it now.” his manager mutters softly with a beaming grin. 

Dream thinks he does too.

Bad put’s a hand on his shoulder, it’s strong and reassuring. 

“Clay, you still love George, don’t you?”

Maybe it’s the way Bad said it, maybe it’s Dream’s denial, maybe it’s true--

He’s back in the ocean. This time the water is stagnant. It’s almost soothing, how the cold water flows past his skin, mid-knee level. He can see his reflection atop its cerulean image, the docile smile on his face as it looks back at him. He feels tranquil, calm in this place where he used to suffocate in. Now he can see the shoreline, off in the distance with its promise of paradise. It’s almost in arm’s reach.

Maybe it’s George’s smile, his high pitched hiccupy laugh, his terrible dance moves, his mouth dimples, his spellbinding eyes. Maybe it’s all the things he misses about him.

Maybe--

“I love George.”

There’s never been a doubt in his head. The part of him that knew that had been buried deep under all the regret and qualms of denial. 

_Oh god._

Dream squeezes his knees closer to himself, hoping if he curled up tight enough--- he would be able to just disappear and never come back. 

Beside him, Bad’s frown deepens. His grip on Dream’s shoulder tightens.

“Clay, it’s ok.” he says lethargically, “Sometimes feelings stay even when we beg them to leave.”

“It’s ok to love George.”

Dream cranes his neck out of his little makeshift cocoon to look at Bad. He manages a weak smile for his manager. 

“It’s not that, Bad.”

He thinks back to the last night. How the alcohol burned his throat, one shot after another. How the piles of glasses slowly stacked on top of each other, minute after minute. How he almost stumbled on his own feet as he made his way over to George, spontaneously asking him for a dance on nothing but liquid courage and some suppressed feelings. 

It was alcohol. The alcohol that made him talk to George for the first time in 2 years.

It was the alcohol that George drank as well that ended them both up in a bed in George’s hotel room the day after.

And it’s the alcohol that probably made George forget.

_I love George._

Suddenly, something strikes him. Filling him up with dread and fear. He surges upwards, surprising Bad. He looks at him, concerned eyes and all. His newfound realization sits on the tip of his tongue with a particularly disgusting aftertaste.

George hasn’t seen the pictures yet.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. sleep? deprived. writing? weak. hotel? not fucking tirvago.
> 
> so heyyyy this was just-- so not pog to right yknow? 
> 
> the next chapter will most likely be delayed again bc of my classes. So now expect the last 2 chapters to be released on friday- sunday. Im also working on a few other dnf wips, mostly one shots and one upcoming mafia au that has been sitting my docs for about 2 weeks now.
> 
> uhh so yeah. thanks for reading !! comment your thoughts bc I'm in desperate need of validation !! (pls simp for me I sacrificed my sleep for the gays.)

**Author's Note:**

> Uhshshs i hate this so much. I'm not satisfied with this and the summary is pretty shit too.
> 
> Anyways, I'll update sporadically, normally Thursdays tho.
> 
> If u enjoy, leave a kudos and comment ur thoughts! I love reading comments and suggestions (though i only reply when i can :,))


End file.
